The Mists of Memory

Chapter 3 - The Rules of the Game

Mist. The world around him was filled with it.

Draco knew he was in a forest, but he didn't see any further than a hand in front of his nose while the pouring rain overpowered every noise. He remembered an intense pain, a battle...one memorable clash. And now, where was he? Who was he?

With caution, he walked ahead, looking around. The intricate weave of the trees and the whipping of the thunderous rain hindered his sight. He turned around, and to his horror he found himself at the same point he'd started. He saw the body of a dark-haired young man a little shorter than average sprawled on the floor. He seemed vaguely familiar, as if Draco had known him well—his black hair, robe and cloak reminded him of someone.

But Draco stepped back in horror when he noticed the blood that was splattered all around on the ground. The man was dead—he must have taken part in the battle, because he wore a robe of ancient style and a kind of armour.

Slowly, the mist began to disperse. The contours of the forest became clear and luminous and, finally, Draco could look around.

The dense woodland that surrounded him seemed familiar; only the placid waters of a distant lake broke it. A lake still covered in mist.

Unexpectedly, a muffled cry attracted his attention. Draco didn't know where it came from, but one thing was sure: he wasn't alone.

He moved, looking around with caution, and soon found the source of the noise. Little farther ahead of where he was, lying by the river, was a man. He wasn't young, but his hair was red like the sky at sunset although spotted with little threads of white. His face, grimacing in pain, was beaded with sweat. His clothing was of ancient style and was covered with his blood.

Next to the man, a small and delicate brunette was crying. Her long braids soaked, her face hidden between her hands.

'Why did it happen?' asked the man in a weak voice. 'Why get to this point?'

The woman sniffled and dried her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. She stood and bowed at the dying man.

'Do not concern yourself now. All shall be well...you will be well. In the end, you were pardoned.'

'Yes, but at what price,' he said. He seemed willing to say something else, but no more sound came out his mouth; the muffled and regular beating of the rain was the only noise that filled the silence of the forest. The woman bent over the dead body of the knight; her sobs resonated in the air, as a proof that she was, in some way, still alive.

***

Draco woke and sat up. He discovered that he was lying on a sofa and wearing clean pyjamas.

Where am I? It doesn't seem like the usual hostel...and I never put pyjamas on, he reflected while his senses noticed, without warning, the smell of food that wafted all around. His stomach rumbled furiously—it seemed that he hadn't eaten for days. He blushed, looking to see if there was anyone around.

He moved his legs off the sofa in order to sit against its back. He felt weak...but surely better than the majority of mornings he'd had until now. The place was warm, and the pyjamas smelled of soap.

Suddenly, he heard a noise and turned towards it. A girl with long, flaming red hair, stared at him eyes wide, holding cloth that fell out of her hands at the sight of him. She quickly collected it, blushing and made to leave the room.

'Wait,' said Draco, 'who are you? You can stay...I won't bite.'

She blushed even more and stopped, watching him. 'I came to check up on you. We were all worried, you've been very ill,' she said. Her voice was familiar, but who she was, he didn't remember.